Please don’t tell that I have a pile of overdue library books ogling at me from my night table.

Not one, or two, or five paperbacks—there are 16 and they’re looking at me like some good-looking bartender who is totally and utterly off limits. But it doesn’t matter; you’ll still spend the night flirting with him, anyway. You’ll watch them, watch you, and you’ll twirl your hair around the thrill of holding on to something that’s not really yours. Truth is, I’m sweating profusely over having to step foot in the library because the second those doors fly open, Beatrice the ‘brarian is going to go nuts on me. She’ll hit me over the hands with a stack of bookmarks and tell me I need to learn a thing or two about being a “grown up”. And then, after I nod my head in shameful agreement, she’ll demand I pay my fine if I ever want to show my face in this city, again. I’ll dump my wallet out on the counter and count my dollar bills down to my dimes and give her everything I have. It costs a lot of money to want what you can’t have.

Please don’t tell that I really don’t like mushrooms…

 …or you, anymore.

Please don’t tell that I can’t remember why we’re fighting. I know we’re supposed to be mad at each other, but it takes so much effort to ignore you or roll my eyes at you across the dinner table when I honestly, completely, absurdly, can’t even remember why we’re supposed to be this mad at each other. Was it something that I said? I think it was. I remember being all verklempt with you because you started dating what’s-his-face and forgot that you had friends. Forgot that you had Sunday brunch plans at The Smith or a series of text messages from me to respond to. So maybe I said something brilliantly disgusting like I hope you two move to Mars together because I don’t ever want to see you again. I don’t remember…

…really, but I miss you…

…and I’m sorry.

That I really want to know what it’s like to kiss him. My eyes go long distance across the room just to study his seashell shaped mouth and wonder what it would be like to squish our unfamiliar lips together and kiss. And then kiss some more. All until the rims of our mouth get pruney. One day I’ll finally ask him. We’ll be sitting over some pale ale and a basket of sweet potato fries and I’ll interrupt his story about comic books with a nonchalant out-of-this-world dose of valor and very quickly, trying not to mumble, I’ll say something like would you mind passing the bread, and also I’d like to kiss you…

…Just please don’t tell